


The Fool's Errand

by Nonetoowell



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Cardverse, Gen, Magic, Magic road trip from hell, Multi, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonetoowell/pseuds/Nonetoowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a belabored knight and a struggling magician are the least of Matthew's problems when he suddenly finds himself on a journey that is far more than what it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I had the urge to write a Hetalia Cardverse story, though this is more "inspired by," than anything. Also, the marital relationships in the story are relatively minor and two particular ones are purely political, so I've chosen not to tag them in order to avoid a misunderstanding that this is a romance story like my other ones.  
> I've struggled with this one quite a bit, so criticism is welcome.

Matthew’s body was weighed with the urge to collapse. His horse fared no better, slogging its way up the rocky slope with a sluggishness that was unthinkable back during its willful days as a colt. The armor he wore seemed unusually heavy and caused him to overheat despite the briskly cool evening settling over the shallow valley. He had even taken off his helmet and tucked it under his arm to gain some relief, his head now quite safe from enemy marksmen as the battle had been long over.

Once at the top of the hill, Matthew looked down, his position perfect for seeing right over the body strewn battlefield and out toward the army encampments. He could hear the distant barking of dogs and shouts of men carry over to him, as well as smell the billows of black smoke curling upwards like a disease from several fires. Suddenly a strong wind kicked up, and his face was so covered in grime that he barely felt it rip past as it whisked away the sounds of the living and the stench of the dead. He took in the oddly festive sight of the colorful banners among the tents straighten out and ripple with movement, mocking the solemn atmosphere. The cloak draped over his shoulders, heavy with mud and blood, made its own half-hearted attempt to imitate the flags, but only succeeded in falling to the side with the hem snagging on the end of the buckle fastening on his saddle.

Taking a moment to rest in the soft glow of dusk, Matthew spotted an archer running up toward him and waving his hands. He was about to draw his sword until he spotted the familiar orange of the Mountain Kingdom under the rusted red caked onto the soldier's clothes.  
"Seigneur Williams?" the archer huffed, eyes wandering to Matthew's shield and the decoration of a white bear painted on it to make sure that he had indeed approached the right man.

"Aye," Matthew answered with as much authority he could muster, feeling as tired as the archer looked.

"His Majesty requests your presence at his tent."

Matthew internally sighed. He could see on the archer's face how strange he found it that a knight, especially one of Matthew's lowly station, was being asked for personally by the king. He flirted with the idea of explaining the strange relationship he had with the king. That his mother used to lend a confidential ear to the previous king and that their current one had a bad habit of playing favorites and had picked Matthew as 'it.' He could have explained that not only were they something of close friends, but that he also held the same special position as his mother before him and that he was due more formality and respect than the archer was willing to show. But Matthew was in no mood to revel in his own clout, all too eager to hear some news after the hard fought battle.

Giving his thanks, Matthew set off down the hill at a quick but careful trot, picking his way around the bodies still unattended to. He approached the bustling campsite of the Mountain Kingdom, passing under an orange banner with the kingdom's diamond symbol, representing the great mountain Léon and its reflection in the large lake at its base.  
He quickly dismounted before the mouth of the only moderately sized tent in the sloppily assembled campsite, taking a moment to undo his cloak that was now caught in his horse's bit. Once free, he entered without announcing himself, striding over to a man bedecked in unadorned armor covered with a colorful tabard and a long cloak made of finer fabric than most, muttering quietly over a cramped table filled with scrolls.

His king looked up at the sound of clinking spurs, forming a welcoming and gentle smile for his guest. Matthew frowned at the smile, noting how similar it made them look. He already had a hard time fighting off the rumors of his bastardization, sharing the same dark blue eyes, wavy blond hair, and even same pale skin as his king. He was sure the overt friendliness between them and his family's history in the Royal Court didn't help those rumors either.

"Your Majesty," he greeted with a formal bow, mind stuck on how unusually plain the famously extravagant King Francis looked at that moment.

"Ah, Matthew, I was wondering where you had disappeared to," Francis responded absently, adjusting his once amber colored cloak, now worn and used to the point of appearing brown.

"Have the peace talks not begun?" Matthew asked, watching Francis swallow from a goblet he loftily held.

"Begun? My dear boy, they are done and the ink on the parchment dried," he informed, licking his lips and aging five years with the stress showing on his face.

"You do not seem to be in a celebratory mood," Matthew said measuredly, his insides twisting and rioting with anxiousness.

"I'm tired. It was a long war," Francis answered, taking another unapologetic drink.

"Sire…" Matthew pleaded, Francis' gloom worrying him.

"We are at peace with the Tundra and the River," Francis sighed, picking up on Matthew's mood, "We are broke, without allies, our army decimated and burning through our resources, but we are at peace."

"We…" Matthew started, wanting to say something of comfort but not sure what. No longer having to face the possibility of death the next day should have brought relief, but Matthew knew better. They were completely laid bare to the other kingdoms now, and it was only a matter of time until someone moved against them.

His primary worry was the Tundra, a kingdom having long lusted after the Mountain's boon of valuable metals rife inside the protective mountain range between the two territories. The current Tundran king, a man great in both size and power, made no secret of the fact that any truce with him and his people was very temporary, especially when it came to Francis' kingdom.

Then there was the River Kingdom, having instigated the current conflict three years prior. They had attempted to claim legal rights to the land surrounding a fork in the Warren River, a body of water that cut through the entirety of the small continent the three kingdoms occupied. This wouldn't have been much of an issue had the fork not been inside the Mountain Kingdom's territory as well as being a high traffic area for transport of goods. The ambassadors they sent claimed that the land had originally been theirs and that the Mountain had been illegally occupying it for over a century. Though the two kingdoms were not allies, the stunt still stung and the arguments were quickly rejected and the ambassadors sent packing. Matthew was particularly troubled during this period, his family's lands not too far removed from the disputed territory. The problem inevitably ended up snowballing into war between the two kingdoms, with the Tundra jumping in like an opportunistic vulture later on.

The Mountain Kingdom soon found itself in a dire situation. Though Francis’ kingdom had resources for weapons and supplies in abundance where the other kingdoms had little, they were lacking in one important area: magicians. Both the River and the Tundra had several clans and houses that could claim hundreds of years of a magical lineage, their royal lines boasting the most impressive skill. Magic was even found among the lower classes quite often, though not as strongly, both countries able to function and conquer with little effort. The Mountain, on the other hand, had Matthew.

Legend held that something about the mountains prevented magic “resonating from the earth.” Matthew never dwelled on the ‘why,’ too preoccupied by the responsibilities of being the official Court Magician. He had been heavily relied on the entire war, his skill thankfully unique: he could move and invoke the wind and air, the River and Tundra only having command of water and fire respectively. Francis, being more cunning than tactical, had Matthew exert himself to conceal a squadron from view of the enemy troops until they mounted a charge down the very hill Matthew had just traversed on his way back to camp.

Nearly killing Matthew from the expense was well worth it, though, if it meant that the Mountain Kingdom had just bought itself some time to ready its defenses. Matthew could not bring himself to be overly bitter about having to unsteadily crawl to his horse and make his return while barely conscious.

"We..." Matthew finally tried again, after Francis had started staring at him expectantly, "We still have time. There are the mining projects in the lesser mountain area, and we still control the Warren Fork."

"We do," Francis agreed, looking at Matthew pityingly as he readied to deliver the bad news, "But I have had my arm twisted into allowing the River Kingdom to freely take the Warren north into the Tundra and trade to them as much as they wish."

"You cannot tax them for passing through?" Matthew asked, seeing the potential trouble that the unchecked passage of foreigners through their territory would cause.

"Not unless I want another war on my hands," Francis sighed, sitting down heavily on a small stool by the table. "In fact, they are trying to get me to agree to have the land around the fork declared as international territory."

"Surely they do not think you are stupid enough to agree on signing over your own land to them after they started a war with you?" Matthew couldn't keep the shock out of his voice, feeling the urge to take a drink of whatever alcohol Francis had been nursing as he thought of home.

"No, but they are going to attempt to maneuver me into a corner. We do not have much time to reinvigorate our forces and make them back off."

Matthew felt such a wave of exhaustion that he was tempted to sleep just out of sight of the tent mouth. “I… am at your disposal, my liege. Whatever you need, I will help you.”

Francis merely nodded, waving Matthew away and throwing himself back into the scrolls before him with a grim expression that was alien to the usually smiling king.  
The young knight took his leave and clumsily rounded his horse up from the small patch of grass he had taken to chewing as he waited for his master. Matthew led him back toward one of the many fires that his fellow cavalrymen had gathered around, already knowing he wasn't going to get the rest he desired that night as his thoughts were plagued with the future.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sir Williams," called the reedy voice of the gardener behind him.

Matthew stood up from the newly dug earth he was kneeling before, turning to face the fierce old woman who reigned in the cloistered courtyard with an absolute power that not even the king had the privilege of questioning. He quietly absorbed the heavily lined face scowling at him from under a roughly woven straw hat, the pale light of a freshly born night and the flicker of torches making her look almost skeletal. Matthew felt she made a pretty picture as a shriveled garden fairy, emerging through the leafy green foliage and carrying the heavy scent of the late Queen Mother's roses.

"How may I help you, Rosalind?" Matthew asked politely, giving her a small smile.

"I should be the one asking," she groused, setting boney hands on thick hips, "You only come here when you are troubled."

"I was just a little restless, is all," he responded with a shrug, anxiously picking at the hem of his tunic.

"Liar," she countered bluntly, pulling off a dying leaf from a nearby sapling. Matthew didn't argue. "What did you plant?" she then asked, eyeing the dark patch of soil Matthew had been tending to.

"Cornflower seeds I found in the bottom of my bag when I was packing to come here."

"Huh! Strange place to leave seeds, but I will see what I can do with them. Now, go to the feast. That fool of a king is going to need your level headedness tonight."

Matthew dropped his shoulders in exasperation, well aware of Francis' 'dire' situation. He gave her a shallow nod that she returned with a creaky curtsy, departing toward the echoes of a celebration in the great hall.

He should have been in a better mood, considering the cause for said celebration would resolve most of the Mountain Kingdom's problems. After what was eventually dubbed the 'Triumvirate War,' the lords in court wasted no time in suggesting ways to cover the gaping holes left in their military and economy. They had considered everything from lengthening the conscription period, to exorbitant raises in land taxes, to even damming the Warren River out of spite. All such ideas were quite naturally waved aside by Francis, and they continued to worry over their problem.

After a couple years of uncertainty, talks with the Duchy of the Western Hills began for an alliance. Matthew had been cynical at first. The Duke was famous for his neutrality, and he did not think that any amount of groveling Francis did would get the man to help them. Matthew spent months away from home escorting Francis to the little pocket of land set between the Mountain Kingdom and the southern-most sliver of the Tundra, willing away long hours standing outside of large wooden doors while rumbling voices argued within.

He could only imagine the look of shock on his face when Francis strode out of those doors late one night with a smug grin, announcing his betrothal to the Duke's sister.

Matthew protested, of course. He argued that Francis was being too hasty and that they still had other ways of strengthening their kingdom. Francis harshly reminded him that Matthew had not offered any other options, and the River was already sending droves of 'traders' into the Tundra. Matthew fully felt the brunt of the insult, not speaking to Francis for weeks. They finally reconciled after Rosalind tried to bring hell's fury down on Matthew for accidently introducing goat weed into her garden. Francis had not laughed like that in what seemed like years.

Matthew was quickly snapped out of his reminiscing by a sudden burst of cheering as he rounded a corner. The hall was filled to the brim with colorfully clothed nobles and food laden servants moving about to their own ends, none paying any heed to the sheepish knight as he apologized and weaved through the crowd. He wound his way along the wall, not appreciating the fire he passed by as the heat of the room was already sweltering. He absently tried to decide whether he had been gone long enough for most of the guests present to already be red from drinking or if they found the heat disagreeable as well.

Finally, he reached a thinning in the crowd and spotted Francis sitting at the head table, crowned in a golden coronet and wearing clothes of a rich orange. Then, when a broad man had moved out of the way, Matthew saw the young girl that was his new queen sitting on Francis' left. The freshly ascended Queen Lily Zwingli sat stiffly atop her perch on the dais, observing those present with large yet intelligent eyes. Her plaited blonde hair was wound tightly by a purple ribbon, a fiercely guarded possession that she would not compromise on removing for her coronation, and atop her head a coronet of woven metal that matched well with Francis'.

Matthew took the opportunity to observe her further, having kept his eyes respectfully to the floor during the coronation ceremony before he accidently caught Francis' eye. The older man grinned over at him in a way that was both friendly and commanding, obviously wanting Matthew to approach.

Not really wanting to, but knowing he had to, Matthew pushed through the crowd with slightly more force than he usually would have. The former grandstanding of the day had wound down enough that no one gave him a second glance when he climbed the dais to fully greet the new couple. He sorted himself in time to look up and see Francis pull away from whispering something in the young girl's ear. Her eyes turned on him with such focus that he did not have to wonder as to what Francis said to her.

"This is your magician?" Lily asked aloud to Francis with open wonder on her pretty, painfully young face as she stared at Matthew unblinkingly.

Matthew was caught between wanting to smile at the child like wonder that kindled a nostalgic fire in him, and treating his new Queen with the cordial respect she was due.

"Sir Matthew Williams of the Eastern Bank, Your Majesty." Matthew quickly bowed to hide the soft grin breaking through as he made his own introduction.

"Well, I would not call him mine, exactly. But he is the official Court Magician. His mother held the title during my father's reign and served him with the same skill and loyalty as Sir Williams has served me," Francis informed her with uncontained fondness.

"I do not doubt it," she responded absently, her olive colored eyes sharp and penetrative. "I have never met a magician before. All my knowledge is, sadly, second hand."

"It is not that exciting, really. I'm a novice in every sense of the word, and there is little opportunity to practice my art."

"Oh, nonsense," Francis interrupted with a dismissive flourish of his hand, "He is simply being humble. If it were not for his skill, then my troops would not have been able to win the battle in the valley."

Matthew did not respond, distracted by the approach of a slight, fair man. His frown was comically sour under his flat cap, a diamond crest and a long eagle feather pinning it jauntily to the side. His image invoked a gravely serious jester.

"Your Grace," Matthew greeted with more solemnity than he had Francis.

Duke Basch Zwingli gave Matthew a curt nod before paying his respects to his king and inquiring, "Your Majesty, would you be kind enough to let me borrow my sister for a moment?" His request was spoken with perfected politeness that did not match the angry fire burning in his bright green eyes.

"Of course, my dear Duke," Francis answered with a tight laugh and casually waving away his most powerful noble. The surly frown twitched down ever so minutely before Zwingli had bowed and left, Lily politely dismissing herself moments after to follow her brother.

"It must be burdensome to you, my King, having such a… different addition to the Court as your in-law," Matthew commented primly after Duke Zwingli and Queen Lily were out of earshot, not feeling sorry for Francis in the least. He perfectly recalled how Francis practically jumped for joy during the negotiation of the family's marriage terms when he found out the Zwingli House wanted the Lily's ascent to the throne to be one of business and not one of a true wife. The deal left him free to continue to realize his self-imposed reputation as a cad with little fear of forced fidelity for a young girl he barely knew.

Francis laughed with familiar smugness. "Well I gained her brother's famous spears to my army, as well as her sumptuous dowry. So any difficulties are worth the price of a protective brother, eh?"

Matthew silently and sadly disagreed.

"Besides, Duke Zwingli is very easy to get along with so long as you never speak to him or his sister."

Matthew just sighed and shook his head.

"While we are on the subject of the Zwingli House, what do you think of your new Queen?" Francis asked nonchalantly, but Matthew easily identified the anticipation in his tone.

"In time, she will perform her duties admirably," he responded, unable to forget the girl's age and presumed inexperience, no matter how well-bred she surely was.

"I agree, and I think she will grow up to be quite pretty too," Francis murmured off handedly, scratching at the patch of beard on his chin as he observed the discussed siblings conversing off to the side of the hall quite heatedly.

"I wonder what the Duke will do once she is fully grown," Matthew thought aloud without any curiosity, more than confident that Francis had no real interest in her 'growth' despite his admiration of her.

"Happily commit regicide, probably."

"Not so long as you do not give him a reason to," Matthew warned in seriousness. Francis seemed to think the Duke would behave despite their animosity, but Matthew more than understood where his priorities were as a brother. He suspected that the noble would not care if his king was only joking.

"Oh, do not worry there. He has made it clear there will be no consummation. I suppose he wants a clean annulment if he decides our partnership is of no benefit to him." Francis sounded thoughtful and slightly amused with the prospect, where Matthew felt somewhat hopeful. Maybe the Duke would use his power to act as a reasonable adviser to Francis, and Matthew would not have to be called away from home so often because of it.

"Anyway, eat. Drink. I'm sure toiling in that silly garden has made you famished," Francis spoke up suddenly, deciding he was tired of their current conversation.

"How do you know I have been in the garden?" Matthew responded as a formality. They had both known each other long enough that they could read the other's moods and actions quite easily.

"You have that concerned expression on your face, and ruining dear Rosalind's garden has long been your habit to relieve stress."

Matthew hummed his response, ignoring Francis' jibe and halfhearted bait into talking about his recent melancholy mood. Instead, he took Francis up on his offer to drink, and kept to himself most of the night before sneaking away around midnight to retire.

The next few days passed with few noteworthy events, eventually leading Matthew to the morning he planned to return home, his packing abruptly interrupted by a sharp rap on his chamber door. Answering, he was silently handed a folded letter by a young maid, who quickly left before he could say anything. Looking down, he noted the insignia of the Zwingli house pressed into the dried wax holding it closed, and promptly broke the seal in half and found a summons to the new queen's chambers inside.

He fiddled with the edges of the parchment, staring blankly at the neat and flowing script running in horizontal lines like a decoration more than actual handwriting. He could not imagine what reason the queen could possibly have to want to speak to him directly, but he suspected it could not possibly bode well.

Folding the note back up, he stuffed it behind his belt and set out with his belongings still sprawled out messily around the room. By the time he started up the sharp spiral stairs to Lily's rooms, he started to feel his nerves seize up on him like they would when he was about to walk into an ambush. When he finally reached the heavy wooden door of his destination, he was mentally coaching himself that there was nothing to fear from a small girl without any magic and knocked softly several times after nervously clearing his throat.

His wait stretched an unusually long minute, and just when he was starting to panic and think that he had been mistaken with the note, the door suddenly opened to reveal a handmaiden with glaring dark eyes on a surprisingly soft featured face. Without a word, she stepped to the side, allowing him entrance to the narrow but tall and well lit chambers that had housed every queen consort that ever lived in the Mountain King's castle.

Having seen the room before, back when Francis' mother was infirm, Matthew ignored the impressive architecture to observe Lily, who sat at a small table by a thin window lined with diamond shaped panes. The light poured in generously from the sunny summer day, making for a lovely picture as her honey colored hair practically glow like a halo and smoothed out the few blemishes to her fair skin.

"Sir Williams," she greeted with a polite smile when she looked over at the door, setting down the cup she had been about to drink from.

"Your majesty," he replied with a bow, vaguely missing the days of Francis' informal bachelorhood.

"Have a seat would you?" she offered pleasantly, gracefully gesturing toward a spindly chair on the other side of the table from her. Matthew stiffly took her offer, having long ago discovered that a monarch's request was almost always a thinly disguised order.

"I hope to find you well," she went on, never taking her eyes off of him and lightly running a finger over the rim of her cup. Matthew nodded, unsure whether to return the inquiry or not. The handmaiden from before suddenly appeared by his elbow, pouring him tea with unconcealed irritation. Not wanting to be rude, and uncomfortable under Lily's open gaze, Matthew clumsily picked up the delicate china and darted his eyes out the window and toward the sweeping green expanse of hills outside.

He did not want to come out and ask her intentions, even though his insides were contracting with nervous anticipation as the seconds ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace. Lily also did not seem very keen on ending his agony, slowly sipping at her drink with a look of serene composure. That was, until she set her cup down and looked up at Matthew with a stare that shot right through him, even though no ill will passed her clear green eyes.

"I am afraid I must ask a great favor of you, Sir Williams." He almost laughed with relief when she so bluntly came to her point.

"Command me as you will, my Queen," he said with an amount of composure that surprised even himself.

She did not seem to be expecting such readiness to serve, quickly glancing to the side and gently thrumming her fingers on the table before collecting herself. "I am to understand you live in the most eastern part of the kingdom, and that not very far from where you live are the Whistling Wastelands."

"Aye, Your Majesty. That is where my family's lands are, right on the Eastern Warren riverbank as my title suggests," he answered, mentally seizing onto her pointed mention of the wastelands.

People hardly spoke of that desolate part of the world. Usually not much was to be said of a barren desert whose sole occupants were dead trees, all looking like they were taken by some ancient fire that not even the history books seemed to remember. Matthew, living in the closest fiefdom to the wastelands, was treated with an even more intimate knowledge of the place than most. Though he only ever visited its borders, he was constantly bombarded rumors of curses and devils. Once, an old drunkard started screaming in the town tavern about how the wastes were the entrance to Hell and all the trees were homes to bad fairies. Matthew bore a scar on his elbow from a broken bottle after that little incident.

"One of my brother's servants has been lost to the wastes," she spoke again, meeting his gaze steadily and directly.

"I have heard nothing of this, Your Majesty, and almost all news concerning the wastes passes to me, considering I am the only magic user living within a hundred leagues of there."

"I understand that, Sir Williams, but this man was sent on a secret mission." Her tone suggested a level of guilt, something that seemed strange coming from a queen raised as a duchess.

"I do not mean to be presumptuous, Your Majesty, but was our king informed of this mission, secret as it was?"

"Oh yes," she responded, eyes suddenly bright, "You see, His Majesty was given word by his spies in the River Kingdom that there were strange happenings in the villages closest to the wastelands. It would seem that the problems were magical in nature, and were starting to spread north into the Mountain Kingdom. Usually this type of predicament would be handled by the official Court Magician, but His Majesty was adamant in preserving you the trouble due to your physical and magical recovery from the war. Considering talks of my betrothal were going on at this point, my brother volunteered a loyal and valuable servant of ours who was fairly familiar with the workings of magic, if incapable of performing it. He set out to assess the situation, and seems to have fallen under a curse while there."

Matthew stayed in stony silence as Lily gently explained the situation, his breath catching when she mentioned Francis' concern for his condition. He should have known better than to think he could hide his slow recovery from the older man, his magic still not functioning quite right. He supposed Francis felt responsible, considering it was his battle tactics that had fatigued him so greatly.

"The affliction is quite terrible from what I have heard," she went on, and Matthew wondered if her sweet and reserved disposition had been an act, "It seems he made his way to the nearest village that he could, before succumbing to a great pain that seemed to have no source. It did not take long before he discovered that the closer he returned to the wastelands, the less he hurt."

"You want me to find him and save him." There was no question in his phrasing.

"There is no one else to ask," she pleaded, and Matthew resented her for her sincerity.

"I cannot guarantee that there is anything I can do for him," he warned, staring down at where his bony fingers splayed along the intricate pattern of his stout tea cup.

"I understand, but you are the only chance he has."

Matthew sucked his lips in between his teeth, his mind devising all the possible scenarios of his new and strange predicament. "Francis and your brother are aware of your request?" He asked more as a confirmation than a genuine need to know.

She did not say anything, only reaching into her long sleeve and pulling forth another letter, this one with the royal seal of the Bonnefoy house. Matthew was not sure if he should feel insulted that Francis could not ask him in person.

"Do not be angry with His Majesty," Lily spoke up, clearly reading the subtle hurt on Matthew's face. "My brother was quite adamant that you go, and they are both still arguing about it, actually, and have been since the task was proposed. But our king knew the outcome was inevitable, and I sought to at least make you understand the situation before you left for home." Matthew did not know what to feel about her presumptuousness. He supposed he admired her direct dealing with the matter. She was kind after all. Maybe too kind for a queen.

"I will leave a letter for his majesty explaining my agreement. It was originally my responsibility after all," he finally decided, already exhausted.

"I will personally see to its delivery," Lily responded over the steeple of fingers.

"I must ask for your leave now," Matthew spoke shakily. Lily smiled and shooed him away with a thoughtless wave of her hand that was meant to be friendly and not dismissive, Matthew standing up and leaving as quickly as he could while ignoring the scandalized look on the handmaiden's face for what she must have seen as insolence on his part.

Once at the base of the stairs, he took a moment to catch his breath, not realizing he had practically flown down the steps. As unfair as it was to Lily, Matthew could not help but dislike her as a figure of authority. Years of being in Francis' favor had ruined his composure now that there were other people in the picture he would have to give his undying and absolute loyalty to. They had been married only a couple days, and he was already feeling the burden of being sent on an inevitable goose chase for some random servant he knew nothing about and more than suspected he could not do anything for.

Taking out the letter from Francis with the sudden curiosity of how it was procured, he opened it and devoured the ridiculously ornate cursive that was not half as nice as Lily's. Skipping over the opening of apologies and regrets, Matthew surmised that he was looking for a fair headed knight lost by a town south of where he lived.

"Helpful," he muttered darkly, stuffing his orders away with his earlier note.

He finished his packing in short order, forcing his belongings in a rough sack with more speed and motivation than before and thankful he had not bothered with armor for the trip. He then sloppily scrawled out his promised answer to Francis, assuring the king of his understanding. For he did understand, even if he did not want to.

Leaving his letter with a servant to deliver to Lily, certain she would keep her promise, he retrieved his horse from the stables and was off quietly with no fanfare or warning.

Summer was in its late hours, the bright day graced with a cool and constant breeze of the inevitable fall. Matthew steadfastly ignored the beauty of his surroundings as he moved off the dirt road to make way for a troupe of soldiers heading toward the imposing castle walls behind him. Soon, the hills swelled in size before leveling off again and the castle was but a speck in the distance. Around late afternoon, Matthew rested under the shade of the thick, twisted limbs of a cork tree, looking out over an untilled field where creamy blue sky met with dry grass. With a twist of his stomach as his horse quietly grazed nearby, he could not help the paranoid notion that this would be the last time he would ever drink in such a peaceful sight while the Whistling Wastes seemed closer and greater than it did before.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a heavy drizzle by the time he reached the tavern. Though it was just past mid-morning, candles were lit to offset the grey sky and many patrons had already gathered within to warm themselves. Matthew had never been so grateful to reach the town's less than reputable drinking hole. Despite Matthew's usual distaste for large crowds, his stomach and aching body relegated his usual aversion to the back of his mind as the prospect of rosy-faced fishermen and tradesmen became appealing after his long journey. He wearily pushed open the door after having fumbled through stabling his horse, the heat and noise washing over him with a warm raucous shouting he was not ungrateful for.

His eyes automatically went to the regulars, most hunched over their drinks and either pointedly staring or ignoring the far end of the room. Vaguely curious but too tired to put much stake in the tense atmosphere he followed the path of a particularly moody glare to a collection of men dressed in deep reds and purple.

Matthew suddenly found himself on high alert as his body sang with energy, the vision of soldiers covered in blood red and carrying the banner of a heart formed by the limbs of an oak tree summoning an unbidden urge to fight or die as he stood frozen in surprise.

Knights and soldiers from the River Kingdom sat and conversed at a few tables together, filling the absence of the usual garbled shouts of drunken revelry in the tavern. All seemed particularly interested in two men heatedly arguing with each other. The one that called for the most attention was easily the youngest of the group but dressed the most officiously. His cape was black and he had a long heater shield slung across his back, as if expecting battle, with the River's heart in one corner and a unicorn in the other. His face was well tanned and still soft in places that would eventually sharpen with age, and even his frown affected a sulk more than haughty disagreement.

Just as soon as Matthew was taking in the man's appearance, two hazel eyes flitted away from the heated exchange and met his dead on. The talk suddenly died and Matthew was more than aware that everyone else in the establishment was looking at him too.

Unsure of how to react and still trying to suppress the paranoia of suddenly being surrounded by enemies, Matthew silently watched as the young River knight abruptly got up and approached him with intense focus. His decision to not wear armor for the sake of swifter travel, it seemed, had turned out to be a poor one.

When they were a few paces apart, Matthew strangely but somewhat smugly noted that he was the taller when the young man snappishly addressed him. "You are Sir Williams."

Matthew wondered how he could possibly know who he was until he remembered his own shield and sword, along with the fact that his home was the only nearby manor. Who else could possibly be the lord of the Williams' estate except the lone Mountain knight in town?

A smirk suddenly split across the young man's face, his deep and moody eyes suddenly lighting up. "Good. Let us talk, Sir Williams, if you are free," he said, his voice surprising deep and an accent detectable despite his laconic delivery.

Matthew nodded uncertainly, but saw no reason to refuse. "I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage…"

"Of course," the knight said with a slight frown, impatience edging his tone, "Romano Rovino Vargas, Barone di d'Oro."

"Sir Matthew Williams of the Eastern Bank," Matthew responded, choosing to be polite despite the baron's obvious irritation with the unneeded introduction.

Matthew followed Romano back to the group of foreigners, his nerves still fraying. Thankfully, at least the patrons seemed to have grown bored with him and had finally stopped staring and went back to their drink. He had heard of 'Baron' Romano, and his briskness was living up to his short tempered reputation. The young man was rather infamous, especially among the peerage. The Baron's younger brother had inherited the title of Marquis instead of him, for unknown reasons that excited gossip from ladies to fishwives who were breathless with speculation. He eventually found support from Lord Antonio Hernandez Carriedo, an incredibly rich noble who owned a small island off the River Kingdom's coast and whom Francis always spoke of fondly. The Lord had granted Romano land and a military commission for whatever reason, allowing him to retain a title of some sort. Even in the Mountain Kingdom, Matthew recalled the immediate romanticism of the events, Francis taking the opportunity to constantly drink to Carriedo's generosity for a solid month afterward.

He was then stirred from his thoughts by the pressure of magic lightly pressing down on him. Hand immediately finding the hilt of his sword, he looked over at the unapologetic Romano, who did not hide his displeasure. Matthew realized with some abashment that he was ignoring the young noble, who did not seem the type to suffer even small slights. Whether the brush of magic was intentional or an emotional outburst, he could not decide. Hastily apologizing, he took an empty seat and Romano followed suit.

"You are in charge of this town, yes?" Romano immediately asked, dispensing with the pleasantries.

"I am afraid, my lord, I only own some land across the river. The lord who collects the taxes here lives quite a distance away. The closest person of true authority is the sheriff." Matthew tried not to smile at Romano's less than pleased reaction to the news. Being a confidant of the king was his only real advantage, and he had little interest in gaining more lands or titles considering how often he was away performing various duties required of his skill set. He and Francis actually had quite a few heated arguments at his rebellious refusals, a trait he seemed to share with his mother if Francis' rants were any evidence. Few, if any, saw the appeal of living at a small manor with only a couple families to lord over. Matthew, on the other hand, found it a small paradise.

"That is not right…" Romano half muttered, causing Matthew to raise his eyebrows.

"I apologize, sire. I would be happy to accommodate you as a guest, even if my property is humble."

"No, no, that is not the problem," Romano waved his hand dismissively, "Your lands are very far South? You are the only noble?"

Growing increasingly uncomfortable with Romano's line of questioning, Matthew quickly noted where every soldier was seated and answered carefully, "Not many like to be so close to the Waste. People seem to think it brings nothing but misfortune."

"The Waste, yes. Cursed I hear."

"So they say… I have had no such experience."

The conversation seemed to die off there, Romano not uncomfortable with simply staring as Matthew struggled with the unwelcome scrutiny. The other men of the River kingdom seemed uninterested in talking as well, most of them calmly observing Matthew in their own turn.

Closing his eyes to collect himself, Matthew took a deep breath and finally spoke up, "If there was something you needed, sire-"

"I have bad news, Sir Williams," Romano interrupted, looking almost disappointed.

Matthew knew then he had just waltzed into a trap, the baron's tone no longer feigning any form of civility. He immediately tried to stand and draw his sword to buy time to conjure a spell, when he realized with horror that he could not move.

"Damnation," he seethed to himself, realizing that the little brush of magic earlier was not just an appeal for attention. How could he let his guard down so badly?

In a panic, he looked around the tavern, only to find it suddenly empty except for Romano and his men.

"People of the River Kingdom are strongly matched with water," Romano said, gaining Matthew's attention again, the drizzle outside becoming a heavy rain. "Your illusions are famous, yes. But water magic has some good tricks."

"When we spoke, I became unconscious at some point," Matthew said, mind working furiously for a way out of this mess after the realization.

"Yes and no. Mostly the rain was summoned to suppress your magic, so you would not be alert to your surroundings." Romano spoke frankly, no pride or sense of achievement in his voice. He was all business and suddenly he seemed more mature than his looks let on.

"I lost my sense of time," Matthew guessed again, becoming serene by the strange familiarity that the memory gap had given him.

"Hmm, as close as can be explained. No matter." Romano stood up, gesturing to his men who began to file outside. "I was under the impression you were the Count here. You are well known as the Court magician in my country, so to only own some land by a river and only a few serfs under you is unexpected. Is it true you are the king's bastard?"

Matthew did not know if he wanted to laugh or spit at the baron as he was appraised with distaste. "Would I be some lowly knight if I were?" he answered distractedly, finally feeling his way through the force holding him down as he sensed the air was more humid around him than the rest of the room.

"Yes. I know well that blood bonds do not breed favor. Though, if you were his son you would more likely be a corpse." The smile Romano gave was nothing short of sinister and Matthew did not have to look hard to see the anger barely kept at bay within the young man.

Suddenly overcome by whatever was brewing behind his sharp, clear eyes, Roman turned toward one of the windows with a scoff. He gripped the hilt of his sword hard and Matthew could see his shoulder shake stiffly as he worked to control his breathing. Matthew was mystified by his sudden fit, but felt he was in more danger in ever and decided he would have to resort to magic he generally tried to avoid if he wanted to escape.

He dug his nails desperately into his palms, as hard as he could to draw blood. He muttered quietly and quickly as his palms became slick and warm. Romano's attention was caught by the soft mumbling and he turned swiftly and was about to approach when Matthew drew in as deep a breath as he could. The shuttered windows flew open, knocking loudly against the wall as a strong gust of wind blew through. One of the lighter cups of mead fell over from the force, spilling over Matthew's lap and dissipating the enchanted air in the process.

He jumped to his feet immediately, diving toward his sword and avoiding the flying plates and cutlery when Romano flipped the table to try and stop him. He managed to get his sword unsheathed, crouching behind the table on its side and listening for movement.

"That was a lot of trouble to knock over a cup," Romano spoke, closer than Matthew anticipated and sounding as if he was unable to contain his frustration. There came a loud crack of what must have been Romano kicking something as he went on, "Smart of you to know how to disrupt the spell. I suppose your reputation has merit." Matthew had to keep in a swear when the voice moved directly between his position and the door.

Time was running out quickly by the shouting outside, Romano was between him and the door, and he would have to expose himself to squeeze through the nearest window. He looked down at where he held the hilt of his sword, blood rendering his grip practically useless. He would have to avoid a direct fight at all costs if he wanted to leave the tavern alive.

Freeing his right hand, he gently rested his palm flat against the wood and ignored the noises Romano was making as he kicked debris out from underfoot. Pulling the hand back into a fist and seeing he had left a dark red mark, he began to mutter again. A very small wind briefly kicked up around him and just when Romano began to mutter a spell of his own, Matthew punched the bloody hand print with all his might. The table went flying, and from the very loud oath Romano shouted, the other man hadn't moved from where Matthew last heard him.

Not waiting to admire his own work, he scrambled to the window and shoved himself through right as a loud smack sounded above him. Falling over and into the mud, Matthew vaguely registered a stinging pain in his right shoulder. Struggling to his feet, he walked while scraping against the stone wall for support as his mind and body tried to reconcile everything that had happened and still needed to be done.

Either subconsciously or not, he paused behind a wooden gate while he heard shouting and armored men run by and then immediately ran across the narrow back alley to the servant's entrance of the stables.

Men were standing at the stable's main doors, their backs to him as they watched the chaos of several River Kingdom knights run about and yell at one another. They were too engrossed and too far away to even notice Matthew's harsh breathing as he all but crawled to where his horse was waiting, the pain from his wound settling in. It took him three tries and a barely contained shout of agony before he was finally seated awkwardly across his horse's back, having no time to saddle the beast. Through the exhaustion and pain, though, he distantly knew he could ride bare back just as well as any experienced horseman could with all his equipment.

Taking a moment to breathe and lament having to leave his shield behind, Matthew readied his stallion and his course of action.

He would head into the woods and make toward the Waste. Baron Vargas seemed unusually interested in his relationship to the dead expanse of earth and Matthew was hoping it was due to a spooked superstitious nature. That decided, he squeezed his stallion onward, and the horse went off in a fast gallop. The men at the front barely had any time to dive out of the way before Matthew was cutting a swift path through the rain.

His heart was beating hard as he used his knowledge of the town to avoid the soldiers audibly after him, the low stone buildings giving way to open road and field. After what felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat, he could see the woods approach, surprising him that he had already ridden so far. He felt dizzy with a delight and freedom he hadn't felt since childhood, the dark fence of trees growing rapidly closer as he wasn't sure if the loud thumping he heard was coming from his chest or galloping hooves.

Then, he felt more than heard the rider behind him. Using more strength and skill than he remembered possessing, he twisted his torso and raised himself up to look back and see a speck of a rider approaching. He knew the rider was the baron, and Matthew's elation dropped in his stomach and his veins constricted with icy fear.

He almost sobbed with an unidentifiable knot of emotion as he had to slow in order to start weaving through the trees as the wood was then upon him.

Surely he could lose him here? He was too far to properly follow at the speed they were both going.

Matthew threaded through saplings and thick trunks, leapt over roots and brush, the clouds and canopy of trees blotting out what little light was available.

He almost halted his horse's gallop all together when a particularly hard landing jolted his wounded shoulder. The thundering of his persuer beginning to close in urged him onward as he tried to ignore that Romano was clearly the more skilled rider between them.


	4. Chapter 4

He slowed to a trot when the trees thinned into a clearing, his options officially having run out when he looked back and saw the black of Romano's cloak and the chestnut of his horse flicker through the foliage.

The rain was misty and light, and Matthew knew that though the strength of the storm was diminishing, Romano still had the advantage.

Whether it was the weather, his heightened sense from the chase, or the day taking its toll, something was oppressive in the woods and Matthew struggled to concentrate and reach for his magic. A sense of inevitability pressed on his chest and he fought the irritation souring his stomach when he felt the magic move through his limbs with sluggish reluctance.

The loud snapping of a branch signaled he was out of time. He quickly groped at the wound on his shoulder, clenching the blood gathered on his palm into a fist and forcing the energy for a spell. He ignored the panic tightening in his throat as Romano made a charge once his horse jumped the brush into the clearing, aiming directly at him. Done muttering his incantations, Matthew took the bloodied hand and quickly arched it in a slashing motion as if parrying a blow with his sword.

Romano's skill as a rider thwarted him even then. He sharply changed the direction of his horse's gallop, the air slicing passed and cutting a thin red ribbon along his cheek. His quick temper burned hotly on his face, eyes boiling a dark umber and instantly contracting with impatient rage as he charged at Matthew with no attempt at drawing his sword or casting any further spells.

Matthew had a small and surreal moment to dwell on his surprise at Romano's quickness and strength before the man was leaping off his horse at him.

The momentum of the impact proved too much for both of them and they went rolling down a steep incline. Matthew found his whirl-wind descent slowed by his back striking and breaking a thin sapling before finally skittering to a stop. He achingly rolled over to his knees, the wet of blood and rain making his clothes feel like shackled weights. He looked over to see Romano an impressive distance away, already scrambling to his feet in the slick bed of dead leaves, having managed to avoid rocks and shrub in his fall. Matthew jumped up with a wince when he realized just how quickly Romano had collected himself, stumbling sideways and his hand missing the hilt of his sword for all his effort.

He did not quite understand the sequence of events that followed. The only thing that he did know was that Romano was so enraged that he did not bother to retrieve his far flung sword, leaping at Matthew again with a second success.

The young noble was quite heavy, Matthew noted, the air practically shoved out of his lungs as his back continued to take the brunt of impact. He barely had time to gasp before his reflexes deflected a clenched fist aimed at his face, his other arm shoved up against Romano's throat to keep him at a distance.

They grappled uselessly for quite some time before Matthew finally found the leverage to flip their positions around. He had just pinned Romano, the baron unintelligibly cursing up a storm, when he spied a pair of boots in front of them that stopped him dead. Romano took advantage of his distraction and tossed him aside before he too noticed their visitor.

Looming above them was one of the tallest men Matthew had ever seen, if they were indeed a man, so close to the Waste as they were. He wore loose fit clothing, baggy trousers wrapped to the shins and an unfastened robe with a striped pattern running all the way to his knees. The most unsettling thing about him, though, was the mask he wore: the visage of a type of deer(1) Matthew had never seen before, the horns long and twisted into spirals as two sightless holes for eyes stared down at them.

The three were suspended frozen in the clearing, rain drenching them and the woods drowned in an eerie silence.

The masked man silently looked at Matthew and where he lay for a long moment before suddenly turning to Romano . He reached out with casual speed and grabbed the collar of Romano's breast plate, who was limp in shock and staring up at him like a suffocating fish. He was set aside like a doll, and Romano's face grew stricken with fear when the stranger returned to crouch over Matthew, the black holes boring through him. Matthew attempted to move away but was too exhausted from continued use of magic and his injuries throbbed painfully with every breath.

He must have lost more blood than he realized, his body pressing heavily into the wet earth and his vision blurring as the noise of the world dimmed. Just as the masked man's hands were reaching for him, everything darkened and his ears barely registered a garbled shout in the distance.

What felt like a long, dark moment later, he awoke aching all over with his eyes watering from the pain of a bright fire light. Too tired to panic at finding himself in an unknown place, he shifted his stiff joints and looked around to gain his bearings. Eyes adjusting to the low light, he saw he was under an angled outcropping of rock, the sound of rain falling softly in the early night oddly comforting. He propped himself up on his elbows when a large hand gently pushed down on his shoulder without the cut. Sudden clarity of the wet chill surrounding him hit home as his mind abstractly processed that his torso was exposed and that a dull burn seared along his injury, the sharp scent of comfrey coming to his attention.

"Try not to push yourself, the salve will rub off if you move too much."

The voice was low and gentle, deeper than any Matthew had ever heard. He turned to see who had spoke and saw a man with short black hair, his eyes and skin dark, a tall and muscular body evident despite sitting crouched in loose hanging garb. The low light made it difficult to tell whether there was a crossed scar on his scalp, and his eyebrows were fine but angled, causing his expression to look constantly thoughtful. The way he observed Matthew was blank in a way that the greatest gamblers would envy, and he saw no choice but to relax back into the soft dirt floor of the shelter under the stare.

"Thank you," Mathew croaked through a dry throat, a fresh wave of exhaustion sweeping over him.

"For what?" the man asked, drinking from a small, shallow bowl and ever so slightly perking an eyebrow in a way that caused Matthew to be unwillingly nostalgic for a long forgotten acquaintance.

"Helping me," Matthew answered, attempting to sit up again. The man seemed content in simply watching him struggle, allowing Matthew to reap the consequences of not heeding his advice.

"I stopped a fight and treated a man's wounds. 'Helping ' implies I took a side."

Matthew was confused, finally fully positioning himself with a groan that was half pain, half relief. The stranger merely continued to drink from his bowl, watching Matthew in a way that made him feel as if his very soul was being appraised. He struggled to find the words for a response, when a shifting noise nearby caught his attention. On the other side of their little refuge laid the Barone di d'Oro, bound and gagged tightly with a strange mark smudged on his forehead, attempting to curse caustically through the cloth around his mouth once he saw he had caught Matthew's attention.

"You... Why did you tie him?" Matthew asked with a bemused frown over at Romano, which seemed to heighten the man's futilely angry struggle.

"He seemed intent on dragging you off. I could not, in good consciousness, allow him his way without your side of events," was the answer, calm and nonchalant as he set his drinking bowl aside.

"And the gag?"

"I do not like shouting." Matthew was mystified by the blunt response, looking from Romano to his savior.

"I am Sir Matthew Williams," he introduced with some hesitation, not sure of the type of situation he had awoken to, "May I ask your name?"

He was met with only the same, carefully stoic expression. The man slowly traveled his gaze over Matthew, lingering on his eyes and wound, skimming over the rest of his blackened and bruised torso with little affair. After what felt like an hour of mulling, Matthew almost sighed with relief when he gave an answer.

"Armand Bassong(2)."

"A pleasure to meet you," Matthew greeted with a nervous smile, "I know you did not mean to help me in the fight, but I am grateful all the same. Also for your treating my wound." He shifted the shoulder in question experimentally, pain gathering there but nowhere near as crippling and draining as it once was.

"If you truly mean to thank me, you can do so by telling me what you two were doing in these woods." Though pointed, Matthew did not sense any maliciousness or impatience in the remark. Instead, Armand's dark eyes focused on him with expectant curiosity.

"That man," Matthew said with a nod at the still struggling Romano, "Is a lord under the charge of the River Kingdom."

"He intimated as much." Armand looked over at the man in question with an unfathomable gaze, and Matthew was slightly concerned for Romano's safety.

"Yes, and I am a knight of the Mountain kingdom. As you know, our people are under and uneasy truce-"

"Do I?" Armand interjected, and Matthew fought off the red threatening to encroach upon his face.

"Um, well, I-I'm sure if you weren't there to witness the negotiations and such, it would seem different," he stumbled on before collecting himself again, "But, the point being, he and his men were attempting to capture me due to some purpose involving these tensions. I managed an escape, but he pursued me into these woods, and thus you found us."

Armand nodded, eyes setting on the salved cut again, barely visible over the joint between neck and clavicle.

"That wound was inflicted by magic."

"Uh, yes," Matthew responded with clear shock, glancing over at the bindings keeping Romano in check, "He is a magician, so I am not sure how long he will stay like that."

"He will not get out," Armand said in such a tone that Matthew knew better than to argue.

"There is also..." Matthew began, almost wilting under the sudden stare he was receiving, suspecting that Armand was expecting his confession. He played with the idea of simply passing out again, but a hardening in Armand's eyes told him he was expecting that as well. "I too am a magician."

Armand looked away, leaning toward the little fire before them. Matthew felt as if the heat of the sun had gone behind a cloud. He wasn't sure if the small smile he saw was a trick of flickering shadows.

"You are very polite."

"Thank you," Matthew muttered back unthinkingly.

"You are also full of gratitude," Armand remarked, and Matthew knew he had not misheard the amusement in his voice.

"Um, if you don't mind my asking, what exactly are you doing out here?" Matthew asked with a small gesture meant to encompass the entirety of the woods.

"I frequently travel and sing," Armand said, looking contemplatively at the newly quieted Romano who glared back, "I know these woods have a reputation, but travel in them is swift with only the odd animal to worry about."

"Is that why you wear the mask?" Matthew asked, glancing to where the orange and brown painted image of the strange animal laid near Armand's side.

"One of them," Armand said, running a long finger over the carved wood with unabashed fondness.

Matthew wondered how many of the alarming rumors that came to the Zwingli's attention concerning the Waste had originated with Armand. Though intimidating in stature and nothing short of alarming in his mask, Matthew wondered if he had children or younger siblings to compliment his reflexive nurturing.

"You may untie his gag, so long as he does not shout," Armand spoke suddenly, snapping Matthew out of his musings.

"If that is what you wish..."

"The issue is between the two of you and cannot be resolved as is. Maybe he has calmed down enough to give his version of events less loudly?"

Matthew flinched, not sure if he wanted resolution. Romano was lying too still if he did not wish to be suspected of eavesdropping, his form edged with tension despite looking perfectly in repose. His body protested any attempts to stand, and Armand's expression said that this was something Matthew would have to do without help. Not that he would ask him. Armand had done more than enough for a total stranger.

He crawled and shifted with painfully jerky movements, slowly setting down on his knees before Romano. Two hazel eyes watched him like a wounded animal would right before attempting to bolt or bite. He noticed the cut he had inflicted had been treated, the same herbal scent sticking to his back wafting from Romano's cheek. There was also the earthy mark on his forehead he had noted earlier. Brown dirt was drawn with an unexpected finesse into a simple drawing of an eye, and Matthew tried not to be unsettled by the sight.

Too tired to continue his train of thought, he took off the gag and immediately forced it back on as apologetically as he could when Romano started to flood the woods with loud swearing.

"Please don't shout," he pleaded quietly, meeting the glare he was given with patience, "I have no intention to harm you, and if Master Bassong wished to hurt you he would have already done so."

With a small nod, the gag was let loose and Romano immediately told Matthew to go do something highly inappropriate, but quieted afterward all the same.

Matthew looked back at Armand, wondering if he was going to ask anything and receiving a vague smile instead.

Mouth twitching slightly down in a frown, Matthew said to Romano, "I think you should say what it was you planned to do with me."

"I am not made a traitor so easily," Romano growled, voice matching Matthew's in rough disuse.

"I thought you were friends at first. He attempted to cast a spell when I tried to pick you up," Armand called over conversationally, either the fire or mirth flickering in his eyes. The comment only made Romano scowl further, seeming even more unwilling to talk.

"Not to sound impertinent," Matthew said with a sigh, unsure how he felt about Armand's reveal, "but I do believe the baron is going to keep his secrets. Do you mind if- and it's perfectly alright if you do- we stayed the night and tried again in the morning?" Matthew desperately hoped Armand would not refuse, his eyes having picked just that moment to struggle staying open.

"I do not. You need the rest." Armand then stood, hunching over so that his head avoided the rock above. He came to a decisive halt and sat directly behind Matthew, forcing him to sit back on his own legs with a kindly push down and holding a small metal pot that reeked of crushed plants. "The salve rubbed off as I said it would. Hold still." Matthew did as told, ready to give away his entire holdings as Armand rubbed in the cool creamy substance that would burn and then warmly hum against the hurts on his back.

"There is an odd smell to this rain..." Armand commented offhandedly, looking up at the sky curiously as he continued to rub the salve into Matthew's shoulders. Matthew had to jerk himself awake from a doze that even the cold night on his bare stomach would not keep away.

Romano's face crumpled into one that was both sullen and embarrassed, presenting a ridiculous sight laying on his side. "The rain was summoned by my men and I in order to suppress his magic." He tilted his head at Matthew, who scowled back.

"That would explain it," he muttered, suddenly very close to Matthew's ear as he openly sized him up. "It will take you a while to heal because of the spells placed on you."

"Are you a magician too?" Matthew asked, turning to face him despite the pain. Dark brown eyes looked at him levelly, not even the slightest spark of emotion passing through.

"No."

"But your sense for it is very good," Matthew went on. He knew Armand wasn't the man he had been sent to find, but maybe he could help. His detection of magic was almost supernatural in and of itself.

"I merely wander," Armand responded with a clipped tone of finality, "Any fool can sense anything so long as he knows what to look for."

"Are you two done?" Romano cut in resentfully, trying to squirm his way backwards and away from them.

"Yes," Armand said, punctuating his response with the clink of the lid on the pot. He handed Matthew his tunic and riding cloak. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Matthew bid quietly, shuffling over to a corner of the overhanging after Romano's twisted grimace made it very clear he was not to entertain ideas of sleeping anywhere near him. Armand's movements by the fire ceased after only a few moments as Matthew settled in, and he could no longer bear forcing wakefulness as he plunged into sleep once more. He wasn't sure if the soft humming racing through his dreams was of his own imaginings or one of the other two willing away the night hours. The sound was comforting all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> 1\. The mask is supposed to be a giant eland, a type of (super adorable) antelope found in Western/Central Africa. I had Matthew refer to it as a deer because pronghorns are as close as it gets to antelope outside of Africa/Eurasia and they don't count (This made sense at one point, I swear).
> 
> 2\. Armand is the name I'm using for Cameroon in this story.
> 
> This chapter was going to be a heck of a lot longer, so I decided to split it with the other half still in the works. Hopefully I can get that part out a lot sooner than this one. Thanks to anyone taking the time to read this silly little fic, and critique is most welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

The dawn was without rain, a light mist beginning to burn away with the rising sun. Pink paled in the sky through a deep green canopy, the earth smelling fresh from dew and water collected in the leaves from the past night. Even though the early day was unpleasantly cool, Matthew had half a mind to fall back asleep if he hadn't been compelled by duty to get up.

He had regained enough strength from his rest to lurch to his feet properly, ignoring his protesting joints and bruises as he saw both Armand and Romano already awake. Armand was just outside the outcropping, and Matthew was relieved to find him petting the snouts of his and Romano's horses, tied to a tree that seemed to have kept them mostly dry all night. Romano watched Armand as well, brooding frown deepening when the tall man fed his copper mare something from his hand and she neighed happily. He looked silly with the eye drawn between his meeting eyebrows twisting to accommodate his displeased expression.

Wrapping his cloak around his shoulders, Matthew strode out of the cave as steadily as he could manage, trying to ignore the scowl Romano was shooting his way. He quietly approached Armand, the man engrossed and smiling fondly at the horses. Matthew cleared his throat a few times to no avail, approaching within arms' reach of him.

"Good morning," he said with a little force, voice soft and reedy after not having quite recovered yet.

Armand jumped in surprise, whirling around to see Matthew and then instantly relaxing. "I'm sorry, I did not hear you come. Good morning."

Matthew nodded, shuffling on his feet awkwardly and mentally searching for a way to ask what he wanted to. Despite being taken off guard, Armand remained cool, seemingly no where near as bothered as Matthew by the stretch of silence between them.

"He seems just as willing to not speak today," Armand informed him lightly, helpfully starting the conversation after a dwindling minute and glancing to the tied up Romano with a pitying frown as he patted the neck of Matthew's white and grey speckled mount.

"I am of a mind of letting him go," Matthew said, unable to read the curious look he was given.

"He would not give you the same mercy." Armand did not seem overly concerned by the truth of his statement, merely treating the fact for what it was. Matthew knew he was right, but he did not know what else to do with the baron. He would not kill him in cold blood for his own sake, the war giving him his fill of the dead for a thousand lifetimes to come. Romano was merely preforming a duty, something he was all too sympathetic with considering he was in such a predicament for the very same reasons.

"I have no doubt he means to drag me to the River no matter the cost," Matthew said with edged exasperation, reaching out and fondly scratching behind his horse's ear. Armand watched his hand, lazily following the path Matthew dug into the short coat.

"What is his name?" Armand asked, the horse nudging at his arm to continue giving him attention.

"Bavol(1)," Matthew answered, trying not to laugh when his horse made for Armand's pocket where he presumably kept the treats he had been sneaking them.

"Why that?" The way Armand asked, a slight yet patient smile compelling Matthew to answer.

"I-I do not know. It certainly sounds out of place, doesn't it?" Matthew said with a nervous laugh.

"Aye, as does 'Sir Williams,' in all fairness... You said your lands were quite close by?"

Armand was searing his soul again. Matthew suspected that this would not be the last time the other man would suddenly face him with his unspoken suspicions. He felt as if he were suddenly being accused of something simply for where his family had always lived. Though the woods were eternally dangerous, and the Whistling Wastelands beyond them were obviously to be avoided, his home was still within reasonable jurisdiction of the Mountain Kingdom. He was a subject of King Francis, and he rankled at the thought of anyone maybe doubting him.

"Between the chase and the scouts undoubtedly looking for the Baron and I, it's not so conveniently close for comfort. It would still take over a day and night without interruption," Matthew said, calculating the distance as best as he could without proper bearings, sounding more snappish than he meant to.

"Would you be safe there from his men?" Armand asked, giving the horses a few firm pats before heading back to the shelter of rock, clearly assuming Matthew would follow. Which he did, a slight and wincing hobble slowing him considerably.

"Most likely not. Though, I did not intend to stay there long, anyhow," he admitted, gingerly lowering himself to the sandy floor as Armand crouched and rummaged through his own things. The mask jostled and jeered at Matthew with the movements.

Armand and the grimly silent Romano both blinked over at him in owlish curiosity.

"Ah, you are on a mission, I see," Armand said, eyes contemplating the ceiling. Romano's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I wonder how much my orders had to do with our dear lord's here," Matthew remarked dryly, his soft blue eyes meeting Romano's sharp amber in a calm challenge.

"I will say nothing," he hissed firmly.

"So you know nothing," Matthew concluded flatly, Romano's face immediately turning red as he grumbled a colorful string of curses under his breath. Matthew almost laughed, the baron becoming easier and easier to read the more he came to know him.

Armand did not bother to conceal a fond chuckle. "Do you keep such things so stubbornly to yourself, as well?" he asked, taking out a skein of water and drinking from it.

"Is that a round about way of asking me what my mission is?" Matthew shot back, and Armand merely nodded and waited. Matthew could only sigh and answer, "There's nothing secretive about what I need to do. In fact, the more help I can get the better." Romano grumbled something about 'laziness' that Matthew ignored, and Armand's eyes practically danced as he listened. "I seek a servant of the Zwingli house. It has come to their attention he's been cursed by either something in these woods or in the Wastes further east, and I am meant to retrieve him."

"That's all?" Romano groused, frown softening a bit with what Matthew could have sworn was disappointment. He supposed it wasn't the most gallant mission one would expect from the King's personal magician. The River and Tundra probably had many lesser magic users for such things, the Court Mage reserved for more exciting and alarming endeavors. In fact, now that Matthew thought back, he remembered a soldier many years ago riding frantically into Francis' court and announcing that the River had appointed a new man to the post. A Feliciano Veneziano Vargas; a man who was mysteriously given the birthright of the baron tied up right before him. He wondered how he had not make the connection before.

"I have heard no such tales," Armand said, and Matthew's heart sunk at the news.

"The town nearby, the one I just came from, was where he was last seen. I did not have time to ask around, though," Matthew went on insistently, not bothering to resist a curt and accusatory glance at Romano. The baron was unmoved, maybe even a little pleased by the disruption he caused.

"Hmm... I do not doubt your word. Who is this man you seek?"

Matthew frowned at the question. Who was he looking for? The servant, of course. Then he jolted a bit when he finally caught Armand's meaning.

"He is... I was told..." Matthew wondered out loud, searching around in the echoes of his mind for a name he had not heard. The dread built heavy and low in his stomach. What was the servant called?

"Were you not given a name? Why not?" Armand asked, reading the ebb and flow of shock on Matthew's face.

Matthew could only furrow his brow in confusion; he thought as far back as he could in disbelief, convinced that if he had not been given the name of the missing man that he would have at least asked for it. How did he expect to find the missing Zwingli agent with only a vague description? His meeting with Queen Lilly and subsequent departure had gone by quickly, but not quick enough to excuse such a detrimental oversight on his part.

He plunged into his small satchel, rifling through the contents until he pulled out the crinkled parchment that was Francis' letter to him. Rereading the overtures of apologies and the commands of his search, there was little offering of who he was looking for other than what he already knew: a sickly looking man fair in hair and face.

He could only imagine that he would have been sent more information after Francis received his own letter, thinking back on how Lilly claimed that the Duke and the King were still arguing over his involvement.

"Something is not right here," Matthew whispered to himself, body locked but mind whirring.

"Or you truly are a fool," Romano offered in briskly, ignoring the warning glance Armand was giving him, "To think, I was told you were a great and dangerous magician."

Matthew couldn't keep the bite of bitterness from his laugh, folding the letter again in defeat. "I am sure the other kingdoms have all sorts of stories about the Mountain's sole magician. None of it close to the truth, I promise."

Armand looked intrigued by the last bit of information, cocking his head to the side and leaning back almost into Romano's space, ignoring the territorial glare Romano was giving. "Ah, are you that man? I heard you were a great illusionist. That you blinded the entire Tundran army in the battle of the valley."

"My magic doesn't exactly work that way-"

"I've heard he can shapeshift too," Romano cut in, addressing Armand, who then nodded excitedly.

"Aye, I have also heard he is the son of the King and a fairy," Armand said, eyes warming with interest. Matthew wondered if they had forgotten he was there, too troubled by his revelation to properly process their exchange.

"Hardly, he'd be dead after the King married. Succession really screws bastard children, even if they are fairies."

"Now that's not-" Matthew tried to speak again, only to be interrupted by Armand that time, who looked unusually excited by sharing the rumors he had heard.

"Townsfolk in the River Kingdom think he's a Changeling, and one old man said he ate the heart of a child in order to win the war."

Romano barked out a rough laugh, "One of the soldiers in my camp said his cock must-"

"That is enough," Matthew finally snapped, voice loud enough to reverberate briefly through the trees.

"What?" Romano asked, irritated, "The Mountain Kingdom is famous for only having one magician a generation, if that. You said yourself people gossip."

"Gossip," Matthew repeated, face a hot red from embarrassment, "Like a couple of fishwives. I am hardly worth the conversation."

Romano seemed determined to continued anyway. "Some in the army called you the 'Pale Bear' or the 'Ghost.' You could make people disappear in the blink of an eye. Your type of magic is not commonly come by, so trumped up rumors are natural... I was really disappointed to meet you. You're certainly slippery, but I think bringing so many men to handle you was excessive."

"I agree," Matthew said under his breath aggressively.

"Songs are sung of visions, not men," Armand chimed in, his face relaxed into semi-contentment as he looked back out to the horses.

"Well, this vision plans on crossing where the river runs east through these woods. If anyone still follows I will lose them there, and then I will leave our liege lord to do as he pleases," Matthew said with no small amount of sarcasm, changing the subject after the questioning made him unnaturally disquieted.

"I will escort you to the river," Armand immediately volunteered, taking the announcement in stride.

"There is no need. You have already done more than you can be repaid for," Matthew said firmly, still wondering how much he could trust this man.

"I go east myself, so no trouble, and riding will save some of my strength."

Matthew was unsure whether to believe him, but found resisting pointless. Armand had all the cards in the deck, and being aggressive certainly would win no favors. He could still clearly remember how easily he picked up the fully armored Romano the day before, after all.

"My lands are a little north of here, along the widest part of the river. I can at least give you lodgings and food if you are ever-"

"Unneeded, but thank you," Armand interrupted, waving aside Matthew's obligatory offerings of gratitude.

Packing up camp took hardly any time at all. Non of them had much to their name. Matthew saw that Armand liked to travel with little on him as well, only his mask and a lute he had not noticed before his most extravagant items. Romano had only a coin purse on him, having pursued Matthew with little forethought of where he'd end up.

"It would be best if you two rode together," Armand said, untying the horses from the tree and hefting Romano onto the back of Matthew's with hardly any effort, "I am quite heavy, so an added passenger might be too much." Matthew saw his reasoning and agreed, secretly relieved he had chosen to ride Romano's horse instead of Bavol. Romano gave his opinion loudly and harshly, both the other men tuning out his stream of insults of how he was being handled.

Matthew swung up on his steed after everything was decided, his body still aching but adjusting. He placed himself in front of Romano, hooking his bonds to his belt so that he would not be so easily thrown. He had no intention of giving him use of his hands if he could help it, and the other man's armor would make it too awkward to have him at the front.

Armand patted Romano's mare fondly on the head before swinging up as well, graceful like a giant cat. Romano looked nothing short of betrayed when his horse seemed unfazed by her new rider. "She is very sweet, you must not be too bad yourself," Armand said, conversationally, the mare obeying his subtle commands with ease. He was not the practiced rider like Matthew and Romano, but it was clear he had a way with animals.

They set off at a gentle and easy pace, Armand claiming he did not want to push Matthew too hard, and he was secretly grateful for the consideration. The party meandered through the trees in an easy silence for a few hours, sunlight filtering through and dappling the ground with happy spots of yellow amid dim green thickets.

Just before midday, Romano seemed to grow restless and leaned forward into Matthew's back. He tried not to flinch when he turned to see the haughty baron glaring at him intensely, wondering if he decided he was going to be uncooperative after all. He awkwardly waited for the man to speak, hoping he wouldn't mention any second hand accounts of his private parts again.

"Where did you learn to ride like that? You could give even Lord Carriedo some trouble." Matthew wasn't sure what to do with the genuine curiosity in his voice, the barrage of questions earlier probably giving some ease to the tensions between them. Whatever issues Romano had with him, his skill in horsemanship seemed to at least earn him some respect. He was actually surprised that Romano was looking back on their chase without any ire, a clear expression of reluctant anticipation turning the corners of the baron's mouth. Matthew suspected that part of Romano wanted to believe that he really was a worthy foe in some way.

Matthew thought back on when he would have first learned, drawing a blank. The same, maddening emptiness that tempered his moods and put him at unrest widening further. "I cannot say. I know I was taught when I was very young though." He did not dare voice the fleeting vision of an endless field of gold grass and blue sky, utter elation hammering through his heart as he charged on a horse faster than the wind. He imagined an obnoxious laugh not unlike Francis' off in the distance, and wondered why the world could not be as it had been before.

Romano looked as if he were to say more, but the sound of the river distracted him. Armand jumped down from the mare when the babbling waters could be heard beyond some low hanging branches, clearing the way and bending the thin spongy trees so that the horses could pass unbothered.

The beach that met them was flat, sinking into the river at an invisible incline, bright grey pebbles the most insurmountable obstacles as they approached.

"Here is shallow enough to cross on horse," Armand called from the edge of the rocky bank a little ways down, the waters of the Warren running swifter as its expanse narrowed. It seemed to be the only place the bed could be seen, and Matthew doubted there would be a better location further down within a day's ride.

"We might be swept away," Romano muttered darkly, biting his lip petulantly and looking at the river with no small amount of apprehension.

"I don't think we are going to find a better crossing," Matthew admitted, nervous about the strength of the waters himself, "Maybe there is a spell to slow it?"

"There's also a spell to douse the sun and capture the moon. Some things in this world are impossible to change, even with the right kind of magic," Romano snapped. Matthew merely looked at him coolly and without offense. At least he had not threatened to drown them.

"We should probably untie him," Armand suggested, putting his hand up patiently when Matthew went to argue. "If he is to cross with us, he will need his arms to swim in case anything happens." Matthew grudgingly agreed.

"You do not think he will try anything? We could always fish him out once on the other side," Matthew offered, giving Romano's scandalized squawk only a half apologetic shrug.

"So long as I have not wiped the mark from his brow, he cannot preform magic."

"Are you truly a singer?" Matthew asked affectedly, Armand merely meeting his eyes with an unshakable resolve.

"I said I sing and travel. I did not say what I was."

Matthew nodded, hopping down from his horse as well so that he could better fasten his belongings for the crossing.

He did not hear anything out of the ordinary as he moved to his bag, but he saw that his horse had. The grey ears immediately went back, and then both creatures were shifting and huffing nervously. Bavol suddenly reared, and Matthew had hardly time to dive away from the kicking hooves as Romano was tumbling back and meeting the rocky ground with a hollow thud of armor.

Both horses then bolted into the wood, crashing away and out of sight before any of them could react. He and Armand did not waste time to run over to Romano to see if he was alright, only some light scraping and an even poorer mood seeming to be suffered. Matthew helped heave Romano to his knees and brushed him off some, guiltily taking out a dagger to sever the rope around his arms.

"About time," Romano said lowly. Matthew was about to remark back when Armand seized his shoulder, seeming to have forgotten Matthew's injury as the blond fought to keep in a pained scream when the taller man put a finger to his lips.

"Something is wrong," Armand whispered back at them, crouching and looking up at the limbs of the trees as the leaves rattled around them.

Matthew was paused behind Romano, dagger tantalizingly close to the ropes. He put a hand on the baron's shoulder, gently forcing him low so Matthew could maneuver around him.

Then, like ghosts, men wrapped in furs and rags slowly emerged from the trees and shadows. Just like back at the tavern his body kicked into high alert, pushing Romano to lie flat in the dirt so he could shield him better, dagger tucked away and hand flying to still on the hilt of his sword.

Armand was barely and arm's length away, bent on one knee as if ready to jump up and a hand hovering close to his own weapon.

Not even a breath of wind could be heard, the sun sailing the sky with sluggish impassivity.

"I must ask you to surrender your weapons and come peacefully," a gentle voice called out, a slim man in a brown cloak stepping forward with silent grace. He pushed back his hood to reveal a young face that seemed sharp with lack of sleep and food, his eyes a drab olive and dusty brown hair brushing at his shoulders as he smiled at them tiredly.

"Who are you to ask anything?" Romano, of all people, called out. Matthew had half a mind to hit him or gag him again.

The men all unsheathed their own steal in a chorus of sliding metal, Romano having the good sense not to antagonize them further.

"That is no concern now. Please do not struggle, I don't want anyone hurt," the leader continued, looking at the trio with no malice.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, the absurdity of his luck, or that he had finally lost all patience. Whatever it was, Matthew's anger rose uncontrollably at the light and conversational tone of the man, and he too drew his sword. The ragged strangers took the threat for what it was, and Matthew moved to meet their charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> 1\. Bavol is an English (and gypsy?) name that means 'wind' because I'm clever like that (Hell, I almost just straight up named the horse 'Wind,' but even I'm not that ham-handed. Maybe.)
> 
> I swear I didn't mean for this chapter to get as long as it did. Though looking back, splitting this and Ch.3 was a good decision.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

The crunch could not be heard over the clank of steel, but Matthew felt the popping of fractured bone breaking from itself through the sleeve as he took out the first attacker. He allowed some guilt to hesitate his strength as he twisted the arm further before stepping away and allowing the man to fall to the side in a groan of agony. He was just in time to slap away another blade aimed his way, the heat of combat reviving his old soldiery nerves.

"Do your best not to kill them," he heard the slight brunet call, voice as calm as ever.

Matthew had no intention to kill either, only to force an escape route of some sort. His gut told him that these were not people one wanted to be held captive by, and he had no intention of being proven wrong. He had just shoved another fur clad warrior out of his way to avoid a sword slicing at his face. The assailant adjusted and made to stab when he suddenly crumpled forward lifelessly when the handle of a curved sword came down on his head.

Armand was looming above the man, looking at him with dark displeasure that Matthew suspected was not intended for the attackers. There was no time to dwell on the meaning, though, as Matthew was suddenly hefted off his feet by a man who managed to circle behind him. A strong pair of arms wrapped around his collar and throat painfully, his sword dropping to the ground as he reflexively scrambled at the thick forearms to pry them away, kicking his boots into the man's knees.

He finally managed to gain enough leverage to uneven the assailant's footing, the man stumbling and Matthew taking the initiative to heave them both to the ground. He rolled into his landing, out of the loosened arms and grabbing his sword as he went. He sprung up to make a dive away from the tangle of legs around him, but was just in time to bring up his blade and parry an ax swung down at him, the sharpened curve of the edge lightly running a cut across his knuckles as he refused to relent his grip.

Armand managed to intervene again, kicking one of the men in the gut and body checking the ax wielder to the side so Matthew could stand. He stumbled back into the hard expanse of Armand's back, the other man shifting his shoulders to rebuff Matthew's impact. They were both beating back another assault when Romano started yelling from the other side of a log.

"Halt!" Romano bellowed, struggling upright without the use of his hands and looking surprisingly authoritative for being battered and still bound up. "I am the Barone di d'Oro, subject of his Highness, King Ludwig Beilschmidt of the River Kingdom. I demand you cease and not harm my prisoners."

Well, he certainly had nerve calling them prisoners looking how he did. Matthew had been so distracted by the scene, he took a swift pommel into the gut and keeled over with little effort as the past few days took their toll again.

The fighting did indeed stop, but mostly due to the complete disbelief of everyone present. Armand remained poised and ready, but unmoved, and the warriors looked from their leader to Romano with uncertainty. Romano stood there, looking very pale and quelled by the sudden attention, while Matthew used his sword to heave himself to his feet and nurse his side. He seemed frightened, Matthew thought through the pain, his face stiff and eyes rather wild. But the baron remained vigilant, throwing back his shoulders and pushing forward his jaw.

"Ah, my lord, your face did seem familiar. You will forgive me for not recognizing you," the leader spoke, valiantly containing his laughter as he looked Romano up and down. Romano's irritation returned quickly, his nervousness gone as he frowned at the man distastefully.

"Lord Toris," he replied, back to the snide noble Matthew met in the tavern, "You are a long way from home."

"So I am." The man, Toris, approached Romano, gesturing for him to turn around, and when he did he took out a dagger and cut his bonds. "You said these men were your prisoners?" He held the cut rope thoughtfully, exhaustion returning to his face and Romano going a flustered pink.

"I am charged with bringing the short one to the River Kingdom as a political prisoner," Romano insistently went on, and Matthew bit back a remark on being called short.

"The fighting has ceased, but will they surrender and come peacefully?" Toris asked, looking rather pointedly in Matthew's direction.

Matthew wondered at that himself, the prospect of escape completely gone if it had existed in the first place. Even faced with futility, he wanted to resist, but a heavy hand on his shoulder from Armand kept him in check. His shoulders sagged and the rush of adrenaline was leeched as was his will to fight. He would think of a way to escape later, he supposed.

With no small amount of reluctance, Matthew held the forte of his sword with the pommel out for the nearest warrior to take, the only peace offering he knew how to convey. One soldier nursing a cut on his head cautiously reached out and grabbed the sword away while quickly backing up again, as if Matthew were a viper. Armand was treated with almost twice the caution, a long moment of hesitance before one brave bastard relieved him of his sword so rashly that he sliced his palm and scrambled away not unlike a rat.

Toris tutted under his breath at the warrior, turning back to Romano, "You are lucky, Lord Vargas. Had my contingent not been passing by who knows where you would have dragged your prisoners off to."

Surprisingly, Romano kept any retorts to himself, merely nodding grimly. Matthew watched them, mystified. Whoever these warriors were, they seemed to put Romano unusually on edge, the young man silently following Toris through the crowd. He only got to see them reach the tree line before he found it was his turn to be bound, the rope sinking into his wrists on one end and tugged on the other by a bulky and very unhappy looking soldier with a bruise blooming around his eye.

Armand was tied behind him with the rest of the lead, both of them started on a forced march into the brush as a mixture of hobbling and brooding fighters swarmed around them. A few would swiftly change their pace, jabbing or smacking at Matthew to keep up, spiting him for crippling one of their own, as the man with the broken arm kept a wary distance where he could watch Matthew at all times.

One of them became particularly fresh, tripping up Matthew as he ungainly managed to keep from falling. Armand managed to steady him with little struggle despite his bindings, shooting such a glare out at the warriors that none dared come too close again. After a time, Matthew felt he would fall asleep as he walked, the heat of the day sinking in and making the moist air muggy and heavy. To his fortune, whether good or ill, the men's encampment was hardly a quick jaunt away from the river.

The tents were simple tacks of cloth slung over limbs, the largest one pinned from the thick body of an old tree, the emblem of the Tundra Kingdom embroidered across its expanse. Matthew understood Romano's sudden change in attitude now that he was in the lion's den. He wondered if he would get to keep his head until morning.

Toris reappeared just then, jerking his head and men immediately moved to drag Armand off somewhere, as much as anyone of Armand's height and strength could be dragged. He followed his supposed captures at an easy and willing pace, leaving Matthew some hope that he would be fine so long as their lack of involvement with each other was conveyed.

"She wishes to see him," Toris said to the guards, but staring directly at Matthew.

He did not know what to expect, but being forcibly hauled toward the large tent was as unsurprising as it was worrying. The entrance flap was thrown aside and the bright early day was swallowed by the shade of the tent. The guards forced him to his knees and one smacked him upside the head when he noticed it was still raised, and rather defiantly. He did as bidden with a harsh bite to the inside of his cheek to keep in the insult he was compelled to make, but not before he got a decent look at the figure before him.

Even with her back to him, and her shoulders draped with a long emerald green robe, Matthew could see that she carried herself regally. He heard the faint swish of her clothes as she moved, and could feel her looking at him as he stared at the floor in concentration. She made a soft humming sound as she observed him, almost getting him to snap his head up as a reflex. He twitched a bit, but she had caught the movement and had started to quietly laugh.

"You may rise," she said, her voice filled with authority and a condescending humor that Francis always lacked. Despite the loyalty the ruling houses of the Mountain garnered, they were always mocked for their overly friendly conventions. The Tundra was infamous for its authoritative court, and Matthew suddenly felt a longing for home in that moment. He then straightened himself up after her soft command, resting back on his feet and then frowning in mild surprise at her.

He had seen that her hair had been pulled back when he entered, but he hadn't thought anything of it because it had been kept in the usual female fashion of tight braids wound close to the scalp. But now that she was fully facing him, her expression one of polite yet irritable patience, Matthew couldn't help but be distracted by her unusual attire.

She was dressed like a man.

Not just any man, but one ready for combat. She wore a loose fitting shirt fastened tightly at the forearms, and he could see that her robe was trimmed with fur and had no sleeves in order to accommodate the blouse underneath. From what he could tell she wore trousers not unlike Armand's, tucked into the most intricately embroidered boots he had ever seen with the tips slightly turned up. Her overall appearance reminded him of the romanticized knight, splashed in the colors of her kingdom and having her look right at home in them. The fabric was even heavy, despite the warm weather, as if she had only ever owned winter clothes. Matthew even vaguely noted that another cloak, one made out of the long grey hide of some animal, sat close at hand. A sword was strapped to her back that he identified as a two-handed great sword, the length something he had only seen tall mercenaries from the River Kingdom use. Finally, there was the cluster of pink flowers pinned in the side of her hair, as if she were playing a little joke with those in her presence, daring anyone to accuse her of lacking femininity.

Honestly, he had heard many things about Elizabeta of the Tundra, some almost as ridiculous as the rumors about himself. But he never thought her 'Warrior Queen' title would be so literal.

"Your Highness," he finally managed through the surprise, giving a shallow bow.

"I heard you gave my guard some trouble," she said lightly, ignoring his pleasantries, "Fortunately for you, I think putting your head on a pike would be wasteful of a handsome face, so why don't you tell me what business you have in these woods?"

Matthew could not help but twitch at her phrasing. If anyone had any business there, it was him, not her. But he kept his tone civil anyway.

"I am merely on a scouting mission for my kingdom, your Highness. Running into your men was purely coincidental."

"As was running into Lord Vargas too, I suppose. You must lead quite the exciting life," she remarked, her mouth smiling but her eyes glinting like a hungry wolf, "Scouting is too mundane, even for the Mountain Kingdom. The truth this time."

"I was sent to investigate unusual activity involving the Waste. Surely you understand the importance of that," Matthew snapped back, receiving a fist to the ribs for his insolence.

"I heard rumors that the Mountain Kingdom is in want of brave men, these days. I didn't think it would be true to the point of sending their only magician unaided except for a wandering musician and some silly little River lord," she said after waiting for him to recover his breath.

Offended by her remark, Matthew just barely managed to keep his tone polite when he answered, "We are currently in a time of peace that has lasted the three kingdoms longer than anyone had anticipated. Any foreign soldiers were rightfully unexpected, and even an unpracticed magician can handle the odd bandit in this part of the country. If you think King Francis sent me as some attempt to assassinate you-"

She laughed openly and loudly at his response, stopping him mid sentence. "You mistake me. I would not think the Mountain so ham handed, the war taught me that much. I was just curious what business a lone knight would have this far away from his Kingdom's capital."

"As you have noted, I'm not exactly alone," he countered, irritated with the flow of their conversation.

"Ah, yes, your friend and your 'captor'. I did not expect to meet the baron here of all places." From the way her voice pitched from contained mirth, he imagined Lord Toris could not keep the story of Romano to himself.

"All the same, as strange as this predicament is, I truly am here on unrelated business for my King."

She merely hummed, gesturing at one of the guards, who immediately bowed and ducked out of the tent again.

"Forgive me if I overstep my station, your Highness," Matthew went on with some hesitance, and Elizabta had to hold up a hand to keep the remaining guard from hitting him again, "But considering we are still in the Mountain Kingdom, should I not be asking you to state your business here?"

"Fair enough," she said, running a finger under her chin as her expression began to close off against scrutiny, "There is no point in hiding the truth from you. We are on our way to a Tournament held in honor of King Ludwig's late brother. We sought the refuge of traveling through the wood so as not to make the prospect of a traveling queen attractive to any bandits or over zealous subjects still bitter from the war."

"I see... Is there anything else you wish of me?"

"Not particularly, but I am afraid you must come with us."

Matthew could not resist the ugly frown he made. "To what end-" he started, but was cut off by another hard cuff from the guard, this time along his jaw. Elizabeta stared at the guard with the right amount of fiery displeasure without marring her graceful composure, and he made the proper apologies to her for going against her wishes. She then turned her steely gaze to Matthew, and her eyes reminded him of Armand when he was being mysterious.

"Allow me to be blunt, Sir Williams. We are to keep you with us until we decide we are safe from any unexpected interruption from your people, whether you mean to bring anyone down on us or not. When we have crossed the border will your ultimate fate be decided. Considering the interests of our allies in the River, I suggest you get used to those bindings. You are dismissed."

And like that, Matthew was hefted back out of the tent, his mood stormier than it had been at any point since he started his damnable journey. He was soon tied to a thick tree on the edge of the camp, his position easy to see from every point a guard was stationed.

Romano emerged from a small group of soldiers, none looking very pleased as he dismissed himself to talk to the prisoner. He looked down at Matthew with an uncertain frown, his earlier nervousness back in full force as he glanced around the camp like a caged animal. Matthew noticed the eye Armand drew on his forehead was gone, but he somehow doubted he could use his magic again.

"This whole situation must just tickle you," Matthew remarked dryly, leaning back and wiping a finger over the cut along his knuckles.

"If you don't sit quiet and do as your told, they will cut you down to save themselves the trouble of traipsing to the River with you. Your King made powerful enemies in the war," Romano hissed under his breath, eyes flitting to where Matthew absently rubbed the thick red liquid between his fingers.

"Care to tell me what became of Armand?" Matthew asked back, brushing off what he perceived as false concern, not bothering to point out that it was Romano's kingdom that started all of this trouble.

"I managed to convince them not to kill him and just keep you," Romano replied sharply, for once sounding a man and not some cowed child. Matthew was properly shamed, but kept his expression neutral. "They will bring him when they are done questioning him." Romano was then off, brushing past Toris attempting to speak with him .The thin brunet looked over at Matthew after he watched Romano go, his expression conveying deep thought before he finally left to relay orders to the other guards.

Not long after, Armand was lead toward him, looking unharried and as if the whole situation were only an unexpected detour. He was tied to the other side of the tree, their arms positioned so they could not pass anything to each other. They were left alone for the most part aside from a guard rounding by within a few paces to make sure nothing was wrong with the rope, and Matthew began to relax if only minutely.

"What you did was reckless," Armand said to him after a time, leaning out a bit so Matthew could catch a glimpse of him if he turned his head enough. There was no judgement in his tone, but Matthew still wanted to go crawl under a bush and die from guilt. He had not been properly thinking of either Armand or Romano when he attacked. He supposed he should be grateful the warriors did not lop off their heads on the spot, River Kingdom orders be damned. An especially cynical part of him figured the River and Tundran Kingdoms were playing a complex chess game that Francis was only vaguely aware existed, and his life would be spared no moment longer than absolutely necessary.

"I apologize for my recklessness, but I wanted to avoid capture. Bandits tend to use the superstitions of the Wastes to cover for murder on occasion," he whispered back. He glanced over at a distant guard who had taken interest in watching them converse, but no one around seemed concerned that their captives were speaking.

"I understand, but you must evaluate your odds better in the future. Obstinance is as admirable as it is lethal."

Matthew nodded and sighed, the sun starting to glow a dim gold as the day wore on and clouds gathered above them again. He wondered how much the distant memories of his mother had influenced his willfulness, certainly not learning it from Francis or anyone else at the castle excepting maybe Rosalind. The distant voice in the depths of his mind yearned strongly for the open road in that moment, the weight of rope feeling like a death sentence as he could not even force the energy to muster even the simplest spell.

"They have enchanted the encampment, it seems," Armand said, and Matthew allowed for some dull surprise.

"That explains a lot, and I can feel it now that you mentioned it. Strange, seeing as it would keep their own from using magic as well."

"They probably would rather deal with the disadvantage of rogues than with you casting a spell," Armand responded, voice slightly teasing and Matthew mustering a hollow smile.

"They claim to be on their way to a jousting tournament in the River Kingdom," he said offhandedly, processing what little he learned from Elizabeta. "A lie, obviously, and a bad one. A party with a royal escort would not risk travel through these woods unless they wanted to remain secret, and a jousting tournament hardly warrants the cloak and dagger. Queen or no."

"The tournament seems to be no lie, at least on the surface," Armand responded with the wistful lilt he got when he shared news, "I suspect it is a means to an end though, like all things with nobility."

Matthew managed a short huff of a laugh, trying to get cozy against the bark behind him once the movements in the camp made it clear no one was going anywhere soon. "Court intrigue has never been an interest of mine."

"Seems to be a fond pastime for our friends, on the other hand."

"Aye, I suppose. At least its supposed to be nice in the River this time of year," Matthew muttered, grinding his teeth and plotting away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't know why Matthew keeps getting beat in this fic. Maybe it's because I've always interpreted him as skilled but incredibly unlucky for a character, haha. That was probably the last of my awkward fighting/action scenes for a bit too.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

He flexed his fingers, staring at them appraisingly as he turned his hands under and over as best he could with them tied together.

Armand observed as well, though distantly and half awake, not bothering to sit up from the hollow remains of a tree trunk he had taken to resting against.

Matthew kept his face as stoic as possible, but could not help the severe line his lips shrunk into as his mind wandered over the lack of escape opportunities over the week they had traveled. The company had kept up the barrier that prevented use of magic the entire time, to his bafflement. He did not know how they managed the energy, but the sharpened lines of exhaustion on Toris' face after a few days gave him some idea. He was not entirely unsympathetic toward the man, despite his role as captor. Matthew was more than well aware of the toll exerting one's magic like that could take.

He also had to admit, despite chafing in captivity, he appreciated how even the brisk marches through the day could stop his body from recovering. He was practically healed now, only a few dull aches and his wounds knitting into puckered scabs that would fade to scars. He could even feel the dull hum of power surging through him without permission on occasion, kept firmly beneath his skin and sparking at the barrier kept over them. He hadn't felt his magic so eager to bubble forth since before the war. He couldn't help but relax knowing that the Tundran warriors would be exhausted from persisting in their enchantment and distracted by the tourney, where he would be fresh for the fight. Allowing an opportunity would present itself, as he refused to submit to his own impatience again.

He glanced over at Armand, guilt gnawing at his stomach.

Romano's words to Matthew on how close Armand had come to being executed plagued him the whole way. Tied up and inconvenienced as they were, Matthew did his best to afford Armand some small comforts. He would sleep on the damper ground, claim he was too exhausted to eat before pushing his small morsels of food at the man, or distract the particularly vicious guards with the occasional biting remark. He suspected Armand had caught on to what he was trying to do, looking at Matthew with an unfathomable and contemplative expression.

He never said anything, though, and Matthew was grateful for that. He finally decided he would trust Armand, and if his trust turned out to be misplaced, he would not have much room to complain, all things considered. The man was even more of a riddle than he first suspected.

The first day after the beginning of their journey in captivity, Armand had resolutely stopped in the middle of their march, the guard leading their bonds not having the strength to jerk Armand off balance to keep going. The lute player stared intently off into the brush, putting the surrounding soldiers on such edge that Queen Elizabeta impatiently ordered and investigation when she heard the commotion.

A burly man with arms as thick as Matthew's legs soon revealed himself pulling a nervously shifting Bavol from the brush, followed by Romano's mare whinnying and shaking her head at the rope around her head.

Matthew was touched by his horse's loyalty, but he would have rather not been subjected to watching the Tundran men attempt to calm him in such a rough way, pulling at the make-shift reins and suddenly surrounding him. The horse attempted to bolt again, alarmed by the strange grabbing hands. Matthew was about to intervene when he found himself practically getting dragged by his bonds as Armand suddenly outpaced him and approached Bavol just as he was about to start bucking.

Bavol immediately stilled, snorting and huffing through his nose as Armand lightly touched his muzzle. Though, with no small amount of satisfaction on Matthew's part, the horse did not completely relax until it nudged its head past Armand's shoulder and warmly pressed his nose into Matthew's cheek with a soft nicker.

Matthew had almost forgotten himself when he heard grumblings from the surrounding soldiers, and Elizabeta's stony stare watching the entire event hawkishly. Armand was unconcerned with the dark grumblings, happily stroking Bavol's neck, but Matthew could feel their eyes like needles. It took Toris' unexpected intervention to calm the tension, chasing away the onlookers and ushering he and Armand back to their guard like a patient mother would her rowdy children.

He tried not to let his relief and gratitude show on his face, but the fleeting glance Toris shot his way told him his effort was fruitless. Though he finally made his inner peace with Armand, strange as he was, he could tell Toris was going to be a whole new problem to handle.

Romano looked quietly ecstatic to be back to freely ride his mare, and Matthew was surprised to see that he had volunteered to lead Bavol on the journey. He, unlike Toris, avoided all eye contact toward either him or Armand. He faced the direction they all traveled resolutely, tensing any time someone of the Tundra got a hair too close for his liking. Matthew wasn't sure if he felt sorry for the man, but he could tell Romano was more uncomfortable with his present company than he had ever been in the cave.

Far too soon after the whole ordeal, they were an evening's ride from crossing into the River Kingdom. Elizabeta had been holding them at camp for an unusually long period of time. Toris and a few of the obviously higher ranking men took the delay in stride, where the other men shifted about camp restlessly. They reminded Matthew of hungry wolves in desperate need of pray. Matthew highly suspected the few meaningful glares thrown his way were not a good sign and wished that whatever reason they were stopped would resolve itself soon.

He soon found himself regretting such thoughts when a small contingent of riders rode up to camp.

Matthew and Armand were still lounging by the shell of a tree, ignored by the rest of the camp as men ran around to some end or another, taking down tents and readying horses. Matthew had been dozing in the warmth of the sun, Armand trying to coax a spider off his shoulder, when the thunder of hooves called their attention.

Though the group that entered the camp was small in number, they were impressive. All of their destriers were larger than any species Matthew had ever seen, hooves the size of small dinner plates, with their riders as corded in muscle as their own mounts. All wore capes of velvety green, and two riders on the front carried the banner of the Tundra: a three-lobed clover made of thin and winding flames that flickered and jumped as the fabric was waved in the wind.

They came to a sudden halt outside of Elizabeta's tent, just as she emerged, a welcoming but empty smile pulling at her thin lips. A black horse with an unbelievably thick neck trotted to the front before her, carrying who could only be King Ivan of the Tundra.

He seemed large even at a distance, easily swinging down from his mount. Matthew's eyes bulged when he noticed the man's fair head was just as tall as his steed's, his burly body towering over the earth not unlike a tree. His face looked sculpted from snow, soft all around with prominent features thrown against pale skin and hair. His eyes were a strange, glinting color that Matthew hesitated to call blue, oppressive in their weight even when he did not direct them at anything in particular. Like his queen, he wore thick robes and a fur mantle, completely nonplussed by the muggy late summer air.

The king played with the grip of a stave that was half a head taller than him, the head of gnarled wood with eagle feathers and crows' feet dangling off it like he was a hedgewitch and not a king. He spoke lowly to his queen, both quickly conversing in a thick language Matthew could not understand.

Matthew looked on, perplexed, until Ivan directed his heavy eyes toward him. He immediately looked away, glancing over at Armand, who was wearing quite the gruesome frown. Armand's mouth seemed to thin considerably, and Matthew willed himself to look back over, only to find Ivan headed their way.

He tried not to quell under the piercing stare that Ivan refused to let up. But once Ivan towered directly over him, Matthew could not help but feel as if ocean waves had crashed down, a vast sense of power radiating from every inch of King Ivan's large frame. Matthew had met a few magicians in his day- it came with the territory of his position. But none anywhere near as powerful as the man before him.

Matthew couldn't help but gulp, which caused the king to smile down at Matthew in a way that disturbingly reminded him of a child, gripping the long stave in his hand tightly and sending a shiver down Matthew's spine. Did his eyes glow? Or was that just Matthew's imagination?

"It seems the 'Pale Bear' is a pale myishka(1)." The men surrounding them chuckled lowly, and Armand's frown visibly deepened. Matthew tried not to think too hard about the implications of Ivan knowing one of his supposed nicknames.

Seeming to take his fill of sizing Matthew up, Ivan shot Armand what could only be described as a smirk before turning back to his men and barking orders. They departed within the hour.

For the first time since their initial capture, Matthew and Armand were separated. Armand's face was surprisingly stern when he was being led more toward the front, Matthew inexplicably ending up traveling next to Toris. Matthew was sure it was no coincidence that the lord just so happened to be charged guard duty after Ivan's arrival. Toris seemed not to mind the obviousness of the ploy, looking down at Matthew from his horse, meandering along so Matthew could walk next to him. No one else seemed to care either, most of the soldiers weaving past as if Toris and Matthew were nothing but trees, soon leaving the pair in the back and well ignored.

"The weather is supposed to be quite nice for the tourney," Toris stated casually enough, his tone polite considering he was speaking to a prisoner, acting oblivious to their vulnerable position at the rear flank.

"Ah yes," Matthew responded dryly, the effect somewhat lost due to his exhaustion from walking so long under the unseasonably warm sun, "The tourney is in honor of Lord Beilschmidt, is it not? How wonderfully ironic that a celebration in honor of the king's late brother is being used to cover for a meeting with the same kingdom that killed him."

"Those times are well behind us, though not forgotten," Toris countered, absently plucking a leaf from a low hanging branch. Matthew's remark was biting but true. The Tundra had been quite pleased with defeating the warlord Beilschmidt in a bid to prevent his increasing consolidation of power in the River Kingdom. Matthew wondered what the reaction was when it became clear the young King Ludwig was not so easily usurped after he inherited the newly formed throne. Ivan struck him as the type to enjoy a difficult enemy.

"Besides, both kingdoms have far greater concerns to address at the moment," Toris went on, rubbing the leaf between his fingers until it was crushed pulp.

"The greater concern of the Mountain, you mean," Matthew snapped back.

Toris hummed in agreement, and Matthew did his best to school his temper.

"And without its Court Magician as well. What a predicament your kingdom is in," Toris went on with a dramatic sigh. Matthew furrowed his brow at the man. He could tell the lord was being quite obvious in trying to clue him in to some secret message within his words. What for, he had not the faintest idea.

"You," Toris went on with a gentle and friendly smile, as if speaking to a babe, "gravely injured one of my own men, did you know? The poor lad with the broken arm. Tundran men are infamous for demanding recompense. My own father braved travel across the Tundra in the dead of winter for the sake of a few coppers as a young man."

Matthew frowned in confusion and looked in the direction that Toris had gestured. He immediately spotted the knight he had battled earlier with his arm wrapped in a sling and grimacing from the uneven gait of his horse as they slowly wound through the woods. He had forgotten him after Armand had scared off most of the bullies the first day.

"I suppose an apology would be insufficient?" Matthew asked, not feeling particularly sorry and still wondering what the man was driving at.

"It would not, no," Toris replied simply, "Which is why we get to the heart of the matter. I am in need of a favor."

Matthew stumbled and almost ended up getting dragged in his surprise, blinking up at Toris owlishly.

"What could I possibly do for you?" he asked, voice cracking like it would when he grew from boyhood.

"To be blunt, though the tourney is indeed a pretense, men from the River and Tundra will have come to genuinely compete, all the same. The man you injured was to ride in my name, and it would greatly dishonor my king if I were to withdraw... Ah, now I see you are starting to understand why I have maneuvered you under my watch for the day."

Matthew had a million questions buzzing around in his head, looking against the light filtering through the trees at the strange lord beside him. His gut feelings were never wrong when he wasn't too stubborn to notice them, and they were telling him that Toris was hardly telling half the truth.

"Why do you not participate yourself, if it is such an issue?"

The laugh he was met with was gentle as summer rain, and Matthew felt a bit flustered by it. "I am many things, Sir Williams, but I am no knight. Though a lord, my position is almost as low as yours to these nobles, and it was earned through trade and commerce."

"The men say you have the ear of the king," Matthew said, thinking back on the few tidbits of camp gossip he had managed to pick up.

Toris' smile grew edged and queer. "They say the same of you as well. It would seems our positions are similar... I wonder how much, though?"

Matthew felt his stomach tighten at the strange hardening in Toris' eyes after he spoke, suddenly at a loss for words.

"I am sure my soft heart may also have some hand in my motivation," Toris continued briskly, face folding back into its normal genial expression, "You no doubt plan to attempt an escape when we arrive at our destination, what with my barrier obviously weakened and you and your friend fresh for a fight."

He smiled wanly when Matthew visibly flinched at his words, leaning over closer to Matthew low enough that he wondered how the man did not slide right off.

"Oh do not act so shocked. What would be a better time than when everyone is distracted by their little conspiracies and all the revelry? But I assure you, Sir Williams, nothing would get you killed faster." He glanced up ahead of the entourage where the king and queen rode side by side and quietly conversed. "I could tell when his highness first rode into camp that you could sense his power. My own reaction was not so different when we first met. He almost felt like raw magic; very old, and very dangerous-But that is aside the point. He has taken quite and interest in you, and you will need more than the element of surprise and Master Armand on your side to escape him successfully."

He sat up and allowed Matthew to mull over his words. Matthew hated to concede, but the man was right. He may have had a chance with just Elizabeta around, her fighting prowess purely physical. But with Ivan's arrival, any hope Matthew had dwindled away. All he had left to do was figure out what Toris was truly up to.

"My horse is not bred for tournaments. Would the esteemed audience not be insulted if I rode him in a jousting?" he asked, deciding he would take the offer and see where it went.

"You will use my man's stallion, Sir Williams. If you manage to make such a willful thing obey you enough to joust, of course. I will speak with my king of the change in the line up. I am sure he will not refuse the opportunity seeing the famous Sir Matthew Williams riding under a Tundran banner."

Matthew tamped down on the urge of telling Toris what he could do with his stupid banner, his would be suggestion heavily borrowed from Romano's own language. Instead he bit down on everything he wanted to say, mumbling a small thanks and looked woefully at where Armand was being ushered along up ahead. If Toris honestly cared for the tournament, he would not ask an enemy in such a blazenly suspicious manner instead of the dozens of other Tundra men present.

His conspiring mind pondered further as Toris picked up the pace of his trot, dumping Matthew off with Armand and bypassing everyone to join the royal guard and immediately begin conversing lowly with Ivan.

Matthew simply felt tired watching them speak. Lord Toris was trying to fool someone; but who, Matthew could not guess. He supposed himself, as it would make the most sense, somehow. But why blackmail him into jousting?

"Lord Toris is certainly a strange man, is he not? Does he truly think he is being clever?" Matthew asked aloud, trying to organize his thoughts.

He was about to ask Armand his perspective on the whole situation, only to find the taller man openly sending a sour expression at the royal entourage, focused to the point he had not even reacted to Matthew speaking. Matthew supposed he shouldn't be surprised, Armand had a good head on his shoulders and knew when trouble was brewing. Though, he was startled to find Armand was far less concerned with his speaking with Toris than he was with King Ivan's mere existence.

"I do not like how the king looks at you," Armand said flatly, eyes following Ivan with cold disapproval and narrowing when the man made a loud and dark chuckle.

"I have heard he is that way with everyone he bothers to pay attention to," Matthew dryly assured, though silently agreeing.

"He has his stories too. Though far more distressing than the ones that follow you," Armand said, eyes never leaving Ivan's back.

Matthew felt a headache begin to dully throb at his temples.

"I have no doubt," he answered softly, reluctantly looking at Ivan as well, "I have heard a few myself. None of them good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Supposedly 'little mouse' in Russian.
> 
> A/N: Yikes, I didn't mean to drop this one for awhile again. Unfortunately, life's been pretty good at getting in my way lately. I have far too much of this story laid out to just give up on it, thankfully.
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read, and hopefully the next chapter won't take anywhere near as long (We're actually starting to get to the bits I've been looking forward to for awhile).


End file.
